Page 11 of Drawn Together
Wordoftheday:Prevaricate
Definition:to avoid giving a direct answer or to deviate from the truth
I’ve been hunched over this first draft for days—lost in the process of deepening shadows, stretching angles, and muting my palette to create the moody atmosphere Cedric Brooks’ eccentric horror demands—the silence only broken by the occasional tap of my stylus. Right now, it looks more like something a sleep-deprived art student would turn in with a trembling apology.
It’s muscle memory at this point, trying my hardest to please the eye of every viewer. I’m eight again, manically coloring within the lines of an adult coloring book, going as far as to shade the edges like a ‘fancy artist’ would, then handing over my paper and waiting for the thrill. The pure satisfaction of watching my parents ooh and ahh over something I made. My satiated hunger for approval when they would say, ‘Thatdeserves a spot on the fridge,’ then take out a magnet from a local dentist, popping the paper right above the ice dispenser.
The warmth in my chest spread throughout my whole body at seeing our kitchen appliances covered in my work. None of them were very good—I can see that clearly when I visit their house, the walls littered with framed artwork of a nine-year-old trying her best to learn how to turn pencil and paper into something worthy of praise—nevertheless, my parents, with their over-the-top affection, never let me feel an inkling of doubt in my abilities. Eventually, that kind of delusional optimism led to me not having the worst-looking sketches in my middle school art classes. Which led to high school contests and scholarship opportunities, then all the way through my art degree.
Mom went as far as to hold up Sloane in her arms, bouncing the babbling three-year-old, and pointing from one watered-down Picasso-looking fox to the next in my room.
“Sister is going to be an artist one day; did you know that? And you’ll be able to do anything you want, too.”
She couldn't sign it because her hands were too full, and even if she could have, Sloane might have recognized art and my sign name, but the rest would’ve been lost. She said it just for me, one room over and half-listening as I tapped away on a new watercolor set I got that Christmas. Because, that’s the mom she is—never letting the people she loves doubt themselves. Not while she can help it.
I like to think that has stuck with me over the years. Through college classes and shitty breakups—just the one, really—and the dark days of looking at a blank palette with nothing coming to mind. Her and my father's words compiled like a barrier between the creative part of my brain and the rest of me that swore to quit. And eventually, I think I started to believe them, too. Believed I could do anything I wanted. That I was talented. Worthy.
Though, this morning, I’m getting close to the point of overcorrection. Where you push and push and push, and suddenly your lines look wonky and the characters’ faces are less your style and more like a mix of Salvador Dalí and a carnival caricature.
I snap my iPad shut and wander to the kitchen for breakfast. Slow, easy mornings like this make me miss living across from the diner—where your order is so well known that the cook in the back starts it the moment he sees your car pull into the gravel parking lot. Red checkered tablecloths and a broken jukebox that can only play Sam Cooke on repeat, and the smell of fried food and bleach-cleaned floors. Bacon always a little too burnt and pancakes soggy with syrup. All with a perfect view of the ocean right across the street, harsh waves crashing along the rocky shore.
My stomach churns at the thought of it all.
Looking in the fridge, I am severely disappointed to see that I do, in fact, have everything I need to make breakfast, therefore I have no excuse to order takeout for the sixth time this week. Before I can convince myself that home-cooked meals are just as good as the Maine diner's, the door is thrown open in a flash. Lennon sprints in to avoid getting caught in the suctioned draft. Her long, almost-white blonde hair flies past me, and she stops abruptly at the counter, chest heaving.
“Hi,” I say, a little too quickly, straightening my posture.
For reasons I don’t understand, being watched by Lennon while I’m getting ready to cook feels like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Absurd, considering I bought all the groceries in this fridge. When I moved in, there was clearly no reason to label my food with initials or to divide our items into sections. Lennon doesn’t have a single item in the cabinets or the fridge—not even a questionable, half-drunk water bottle with L.S. on it or anything. I am not convinced Lennon has everstepped foot in a grocery store; I am also not convinced she isn’t a government experiment sent here to spy on lonely artists.
Lennon hums in response. Noncommittal.
“I enjoyed trivia night the other day.” I offer, watching her face for signs of thawing. Or possibly robotics. Something like curiosity flickers in her eyes, but is gone too fast, like a candle blown out with only a line of smoke left for evidence.
I wonder how many secrets a woman like her holds inside. Something about what Fletcher left me with that night hasn’t been able to leave my mind. If she spoke to you, then you would know exactly why I live across the street. Is it just me that Lennon is nearly silent with, then?
“Yeah.” She nods, head back down to her phone as she types away. “It’s tradition.”
It feels like now might be a time when she wouldn’t hate me to push the conversation a little further, so I try to find the sweet spot.
“Tradition for all of you?”
“Most of us.”
Hmm.
She turns and goes to the bathroom, fingers still frantically typing while her face is a statue labeled ‘bored.’ A moment later, there is running water and pipes thumping against the walls.
I quickly move through cooking and plate my breakfast—a poached egg on a bagel with salt and pepper—before Lennon reemerges, dressed in what some might describe as clothes, scrolling through her phone. Just as my fork is reaching for the unbroken yolk in my egg, she sighs loudly and slumps over the counter, muttering something into her jacket sleeve.
“Are you okay?”
She slips her head up enough to mumble, “My friends suck.”
“Stephan? Or one of the other people at trivia night?” Specifically, one who I think would suck a little more so than the others.
“Not them. And Stephan would never cancel on me.” She gets up from her counter and goes back to her room, slamming the door, leaving just me and my sad little poached egg sandwich.
I don’t know if it's phantom noises or if I am reaching that far, but a moment later I swear I hear a sniffle come through the thin walls just outside Lennon’s room. I know she is a private person, and I know I am the literal opposite of that. But, something here feels like I could…I don’t know, do something. If she had plans with a friend that cancelled, does that mean she would want new plans with someone else?
